The Bergamese Sect (42 page)

Linsky smiled at the idea. Even with the Assistant Director’s insistence, he still found the whole idea too crazy.
Too Spielberg
he told himself. But who was he to question it?

Linsky hadn’t been idle as he sat through the dull hours. He’d gathered the information he needed to act – when the time came, if it came. There were eight people in the building – the receptionist and secretary, two officers of the Society council, three ordinary members and one other man. He knew where each was located, just about. He knew whom they’d spoken to, whom they’d emailed and what web sites they’d been looking at. It was all uninteresting. Except for that other man.

The receptionist had greeted him with the words ‘morning Mr Radich’ but there’d been no voice of reply in Linsky’s headset. Just a slow and deliberate ascent of the stairs. He’d heard the receptionist grumble something to herself, giggle at a private, unshared joke. Now, the man was locked away somewhere at the top of the building; in a room that Linsky’s listening devices couldn’t penetrate. He was waiting. For the same thing as Linsky, no doubt.

Staring, unfocussed, at the computer screen, Linsky’s vision was blurred by daydream. The incessant tinkling of faint sounds through his headset was making him sleepy. He took another chunk out of his thumbnail and crunched it noisily.

Suddenly, a new noise filled his ears, shaking him into alertness. The computer display snapped into focus and Linsky saw the wave-like patterns of speech dancing across the screen. A microphone was picking up voices in the reception area.

‘
Morning. We have an appointment with the librarian,’ said a man’s voice, heavily accented.

German
, thought Linsky.

A German!
He leant forward, notched the volume up and adjusted his headset.

‘
What name is it?’ a woman’s voice said.

‘
David Johnson and Max Kellerman.’

Linsky made a grab for his mobile, began punching in a number.

‘
Mr Radich?’ the woman’s voice said. ‘There are two gentlemen here to see the librarian. Shall I send them up? Er…, Johnson and Kellerman. Okay.’ There was the sound of a phone being put down. ‘Take a seat. Mr Radich will be down in a moment.’

Linsky ripped off the headset.

‘
Walsh?’ he said after hearing a drowsy voice pick up. ‘They’re here. Castro and Koestler.’

‘
Shit!’ said Walsh, ‘they’re early.’

‘
Early?’

‘
I’ll explain later.’ Walsh began to speak again, but stopped, stuttered. ‘Okay,’ he said at last, ‘we can’t afford to lose these two guys. We’ll have to pick them up. I’ll call Lewis now and tell him to get the target to safety.’

‘
What do you want me to do?’

Walsh thought again. ‘Er…, I don’t know. We don’t have much time, maybe only a few minutes. Get yourself into the building and get those two guys out. By any means. Set the alarms off or something.’

‘
Okay.’

‘
Is Sewell in the building?’

‘
No, but the guy called Radich is there.’

‘
Okay, he’s probably calling Sewell right now. Just get in there and get them out. I’ll be there in ten minutes. If you can somehow create an evacuation, I’ll be waiting outside and catch them as they come out. Just make sure you leave the building by the front door.’

‘
Okay, I’m on my way.’

‘
Steve?’ Walsh’s voice was a deathly monotone. ‘Hurry, they could be dead in minutes.’

‘
You hurry too, Larry. I don’t want to be caught alone in there with no back up.’

‘
I’m leaving now. Just be careful.’

Linsky punched the phone off, grabbed his jacket, feeling inside for the gun, and leapt through the door into the street.

―
§ ―

Jan Radich sat on the edge of a plush black-leather armchair and swung himself round, fingers interlaced, to look at Castro and Koestler. The men were taking their seats across a large mahogany table, unconcerned, brazen in their audacity.

It made Radich feel almost sick with contempt. He’d love to take out his sleek Kimber .45 and put an end to their meddling there and then. But he didn’t fancy cleaning their brains off his attractive office walls. He’d recently had the place redecorated.

But rebels and sinners shall be broken together, and those who forsake the Lord shall be consumed.
Their time is near, Radich thought.

He felt the urge to take them both by the collar, give them a piece of his mind. But Jordan had given him strict instructions and he resisted. He’d done what he’d been told; he’d let Sewell know as soon as the men had entered the building. All he had to do now was keep them there, without arousing their suspicions, without letting them know they were only hours from perdition.

It was all Radich could do to prevent a wicked smile from breaking across his harsh and thin Slovakian features. He managed to turn the sneer into a welcoming grin.

‘
Regrettably our librarian was called away this morning on business,’ he said.

‘
That’s a shame.’ It was the American talking.

‘
Yes. But if there’s anything I can help you with?’

‘
I’m sure you could. We’re hoping to build up a business relationship with you; supplying ancient manuscripts. We’d just like to learn a bit about the Society.’

I bet you would
, thought Radich.
Godless infidels!
 

He eyed the American suspiciously. He’d seen this face before. In a Bavarian hotel. Only then, Radich hadn’t recognised him, hadn’t realised who had passed him casually in the corridor. The man had slipped away into the night. But Radich wasn’t going to lose him again. This time he was going to make damn sure the job was finished.

And once before, a year ago, Radich had sighted that face through a shimmering heat haze. Framed by a circle of blurred black. He smiled, recalling the monumentally brutal sky that day. It had been perfect. The Lord Himself couldn’t have furnished a better backdrop to the creation of Castro’s nightmare.

And as I looked, behold, a stormy wind came out of the north, and a great cloud, with brightness around it, and fire flashing forth continually, and in the midst of the fire, as it were gleaming metal.

It was fresh in Radich’s memory, inflaming his devotion. Castro had squinted at a light across a baked wasteland. A light so bright it hurt the eyes. And around him, the haze was like rivulets of mercury blowing away in the approaching tempest. Moments before the downpour, the tranquiliser dart had raced through the sultry storm cloud. Swift like the Hand of God. Speedily bringing Castro his terror.

Beautiful. Inspiring.

‘
Would you like coffee?’ Radich asked.

Neither man seemed keen on the idea, but Radich waved his hand to avert any protestations. ‘Just a moment.’ He picked up the phone and called down to reception, abruptly demanding a pot of coffee and three cups. Leaning back in his chair, he interlaced his fingers again and stared at the two men silently.

A spark was in his dark eyes. A spark of reverence, for Jan Radich was a shepherd of Mankind, a minister of sublime Truth. His mission kindled a blazing passion in his heart. It led him to paroxysms of adoration. The ecstasy of it was almost like the moment the seed convulsed from the body, exhausting the worshipper. An explosive euphoria. But only sweeter, purer, closer to purgatory. Radich could drink at the divine fountain until bloated, but could never quench his raging thirst. The desire for further sacrifice was overwhelming.

And from the midst of it came the likeness of four living creatures. And this was their appearance: they had a human likeness,
but each had four faces, and each of them had four wings.
Their legs were straight, and the soles of their feet were like the sole of a calf's foot. And they sparkled like burnished bronze
.

Terrifying forms. But delightful in their potency.

Radich fought the urge to close his eyes, revel in the artistry of terror. Instead, he drummed his thumb heavily on the desk. The seconds were ticking by, but Radich continued to stare, untroubled by the widening moment.

It was the American who troubled him. He believed his consciousness held only the spark of moving particles. That its divinity was false. That the blood coursing through his veins was not imbued with the flame of the exalted. How could men be so misguided? How could they gaze and see sky, but never Heaven?

But see him cower in the presence of impossibilities, thought Radich. Watch him choke on the blasphemy; embrace the purifying horror. Delight as he trembles at the fearful touch of Semyaza.

As for the likeness of the living creatures, their appearance was like burning coals of fire, like the appearance of torches moving to and fro among the living creatures. And the fire was bright, and out of the fire went forth lightning. Then the Spirit
lifted me up, and I heard behind me the voice
of a great earthquake. Blessed be the glory of the Lord from its place.
It was the sound of the wings of the living creatures as they touched one another, and the sound of the wheels beside them, and the sound of a great earthquake. The Spirit lifted me up and took me away, and I went in bitterness in the heat of my spirit, the hand of the Lord being strong upon me
.

Fallen angels. Teachers in the night.

The American’s eyes were confused, unfocussed, perhaps recalling his terror, unaware that his salvation was close.
Lift him up, Lord, and take him away. Let him hear the voice of the earthquake. Let him feel Your hand strong upon him.
 

Radich was almost swooning with the heat of his passion. He glanced at his watch. ‘Fifteen minutes,’ Sewell had said, and it had already been ten. He felt his fingers run along the lapel of his jacket, itching to reach inside for his weapon.

He brushed some fluff off the cloth and gave the American another grin.

―
§ ―

Walsh was running down Lexington Avenue, sweating and wheezing, dodging the lunchtime pedestrians. He was trying his best to punch the redial key on his mobile. But he was running too fast. He stopped, pressed the button, raised the phone to his ear and sped on down the road.

A few seconds passed then an unavailable tone beeped in his ear. Again. He’d tried five times already.
Where the fuck is Lewis? I told him to keep it on.
 

Panic filled Walsh’s chest with each gasp of air. He stuck the phone in his jacket and turned into the side street. The
Tagaste
building was only a few hundred yards away.

Just as Walsh was about to sprint over the road, a car came quickly round the corner, its tyres squealing. He pulled back between two parked cars as the vehicle sped past. The front fender had only just avoided taking his knees off.

He ran on. Then he heard the squealing again and saw the car draw up abruptly. It had stopped outside the
Tagaste
building. Walsh slowed, ducked below the roofs of the parked cars, and peered along the sidewalk. The car, a black Sedan, was in the middle of the road, its engine still running. Doors opened and three men jumped out. Two were young, very tall with almost shaven heads, but the third was older.

It took a few seconds for recognition to register. It was Sewell.

There was urgency in his voice as he shouted at the other men. ‘Inside,’ he screamed, ‘top floor.’ The two men ran straight into the building.

Sewell followed more slowly and as he came around the car, Walsh could see a tiredness, a paleness, in the man’s face. Walsh felt a sadistic satisfaction bubble up inside him as he saw Sewell’s right arm held across his pectorals with a clean, white sling.

Ducking down further, Walsh watched as Sewell drew a weapon from his coat and checked the barrel. He slipped it away again and skipped up the steps into the building.

Pulling the mobile from his jacket again, Walsh tried Lewis’ number. But still there was no ring tone.

A strange feeling began to overcome him. With nowhere to run or hide, the seconds were ebbing away toward the inevitable. People were about to die. His quest was about to be stalled. The truth was dangling before him as the landslide dragged him over the precipice toward failure.

Chapter 25

David Castro was watching the Society’s spokesman across a large mahogany desk. Radich was swinging his leather armchair from side to side, slurping a cup of coffee. He seemed tetchy, unusually stern.

For a brief second, Castro thought he’d seen the man’s face before. His drawn, gaunt features stirred the dimmest of memories in him. But Radich’s face was commonplace Baltic, having that compressed brow and prominent cheek that erupted into distinction beyond the Urals. Castro passed over the odd feeling.

‘
Can we talk a bit about your members?’ Koestler was asking. ‘I’d like to get a feel for where their interests lie.’

‘
Sure,’ Radich said, placing his cup on the table.

‘
What common aim do your members have?’

Radich clasped his hands together and pressed his mouth to his knuckles, thinking for a moment. ‘The Society is devoted to the study of Christian doctrine,’ he said, ‘specifically about how it has developed through the ages. We concentrate on analysing biblical manuscripts and documenting the lives of early Christian writers. Some of our research areas include Christian pedagogy, religious cultural studies and the history of religious conflict. We also do a lot of work aimed at preserving religious scholarship and heritage, as well as some conservation work.’

Koestler licked his moustache. ‘So it would be true to say all your members are religious scholars?’